Happiness
by terrified
Summary: A one-shot. Sherlock escapes what he believes are the doldrums of Christmas, causing everyone to worry about his persistent state of unhappiness. However, he receives a very unexpected Christmas greeting and with it, the possibility of happiness.


_**A/N: **I did it again. I stayed up late and I have work tomorrow and I am just going to crash. However, I was a little frustrated from writing all these rather dark and uncomfortable scenes in The Admirer and had a sudden desire for some good ol' Sherlolly. Bonus matchmaker Mycroft because I'm sure it's no secret by now, I love Mycroft! I'm dead sleepy by the way, so if there are strange errors, forgive me. I will edit them tomorrow or something.. x_

* * *

**Happiness**

"I'm inviting Molly. So there," Mary said.

The Watsons had stopped over just a week shy of Christmas announcing that they were going to throw the annual Christmas party at Baker Street. Mrs Hudson was delighted of course and had been left in charge of the catering. Sherlock, as usual, was none too pleased.

"Why are we even making an event out of this—"  
"Because it _is_ an event, Sherlock, an actual event that we celebrate." John interrupted.

The detective rolled his eyes and got up from his seat. He reached for his violin and began playing some rather coarse-sounding arpeggios. The Watsons looked at each other and knew this meant the conversation was over. Nevertheless, Mary was determined to throw the party and ignored Sherlock's bout of musical sulking.

* * *

It was a few days before the party and Mary had come over with some decorations as well as to stock up on drinks for the party.

"Mary." Sherlock greeted from his armchair.  
"Oh, hello," she said, taking her bags to the kitchen. "Wasn't expecting you to be in. No cases?"  
"Everyone's in the _holiday mood, _it seems. Even the criminal classes." he muttered.

From the kitchen, Mary laughed and carefully placed the newly purchased bottles of wine into the mini wine cooler.

"Oh, by the way, Sherlock?" she said, still crouched on the floor arranging bottles.  
"Hmm?"  
"Molly's not coming. She was planning on visiting the countryside for the holidays."  
"Why are you telling me this?"  
"No reason," Mary said, looking up suddenly. "No reason at all."

The detective stood up sharply and smoothed his jacket.

"Well, it doesn't matter. Nothing changes." he said as he made his way to his room.  
"You _are_ coming for the Christmas party, Sherlock?" Mary asked, popping her head up from where she was crouched.  
"I can't _come_ to a party if it's taking place where I live," he answered curtly.  
"So you'll be here?"

There came no reply, and it worried Mary slightly. Quickly, she texted John.

That night, when Mary returned home, John came up to her and sighed.

"Your suspicions were right." he said, helping her with her coat.  
"I don't know if I want to hear it." Mary said, actually wincing.  
"I managed to squeeze it out of him." John said.  
"And?"  
"Since we mentioned the party, he'd gone and booked a plane ticket out of England" John said. "He leaves Christmas afternoon. Headed somewhere with 'less Christmas' he said."  
"Well, it's too late to cancel Christmas…"  
"We're not cancelling it," John said, giving his wife a comforting peck, "Mrs Hudson will be there, so will Greg and Mike. It's going to be fine."  
"I wish Molly was coming at least." Mary said, genuinely crestfallen.  
"There's always next year," John assured her. "Come on, it's late."

* * *

It was midnight and Mary sat up in bed with a start.

"What's the matter?" John asked, reaching for the bedside lamp, "You okay?"  
"Do you have Mycroft's number?" Mary asked.  
"Yes. And no. I have several, from the several times he's had me hauled into his secret little lairs."  
"Call him. Text him. Tell him about Sherlock leaving and if he can stop it."  
"Why are you so desperate to have Sherlock over for Christmas?" John asked, sitting up and grimacing from the lamp.  
"He's just been so…_unhappy_, John." Mary said, with a sigh.  
"He's always unhappy…"  
"No, he's always sulky or grumpy. It's different from being _unhappy_."  
"Why do you think that?" John asked, collapsing back into bed.  
"I don't know." Mary said, turning to her groggy husband, "Just a hunch, you know?"  
"Well, you know where my phone is, just search for any of the Mycrofts and you'll have your man…"

Mary leaned over to pop a kiss on her husband's lips before slipping out of bed to get his phone.

* * *

"John. Is there an emergency?"  
"Wow, that was quick…it barely rang once."  
"Mary?"  
"Hello, Mycroft, listen."  
"Y-es."  
"Sherlock is leaving England on Christmas afternoon."  
"That's not a problem…"  
"No, you see, we wanted to have our Christmas thing again at 221B, now that he's, you know, neither dead nor on a suicide mission and well, things have been good recently…"  
"I have to agree. The lack of Moriarty is a marvellous definition of _good_."  
"But he's been so _unhappy_, Mycroft."  
"Has he been on any cases?"  
"Not recently, no."  
"Has he been doing experiments at home?"  
"The kitchen's been spotless. So, no."  
"Has he been going to Bart's then?"  
"No, I've been talking to Molly and it doesn't seem like he has."  
"Ah."  
"What do you mean, _ah_?"  
"Mary, I doubt I can bring my stubborn little brother back to England. Not without good reason anyway."  
"But Mycroft—"  
"But what I _can_ do, is address this issue of unhappiness you speak of."  
"So you agree with me that he's unhappy?"  
"From what you've told me, Mary, he seems positively desolated."

* * *

When Sherlock Holmes reached Heathrow he heaved a small sigh of relief to himself. He was glad to have managed to sneak out with his bags without Mrs Hudson noticing. Scanning the airport, he was surprised that the Watsons had not come to cause a din and try to bring him home. Nevertheless, he was grateful they finally left him alone. After all, alone was ultimately what protected him. Alone was what he needed.

He had booked himself a first-class ticket out of London. Sherlock was not a man to indulge in such luxuries but it was Christmas, after all. He sank gratefully into his comfortable seat and enjoyed the absolute serenity of what seemed like a rather empty first-class cabin. Sherlock shut his eyes and folded his arms across his chest as he finally allowed himself to relax.

Even with his eyes closed, Sherlock never stopped observing his surroundings. His ears and his nose were still alert and active, piecing together the environment from what he could not see. It was still very quiet, but he could hear the muffled din of the bulk of passengers boarding in the economy cabins downstairs. There was the faint scent of champagne being poured as the first-class cabin crew prepared the welcome cocktails before take-off.

He was suddenly drawn to a pair of voices, one voice seemed troubled, perplexed. It was a first-class cabin crew talking to a passenger. The passenger seemed lost, distraught and very, very unsure.

"I showed them my ticket and they brought me here…" came the voice, "I'm just…not sure if it's the right place."  
"Indeed you are, Ma'am," came the cheery voice of the cabin attendant. "Allow me to show you to your seat…"  
"No, you don't understand, why am I in first-class…"  
"Well, you're holding the correct ticket, Ma'am."  
"But it has to be a mistake…" the voice protested.  
"Might I take a closer look then, Ma'am?" asked the attendant politely.  
"Please." she replied. Her voice sounded strained and a little worn out.  
"From what I can see, Ms Hooper, you're definitely in the right place."

Sherlock's eyes sprung open and he shot out of his seat. When he stood up, he caught the attention of the cabin crew and the distraught passenger.

"Molly?" he uttered, puzzled.  
"Oh." she whispered.

Molly turned to the cabin attendant, whose turn it was to be perplexed.

"It's all right," Molly said with a smile, "I am in the right place. Thank you."  
"Of course, Ma'am." the attendant said, with a polite nod, "Let me know if there's anything else you need."

Molly walked over to the seat beside Sherlock and checked her ticket.

"Yes. This is my seat." she muttered to herself.

It was Molly's turn to sink gratefully into the luxurious first-class seat. Sherlock followed suit and sat when she did.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked softly. "Where this flight is taking us is hardly the English countryside."

Molly brought a hand up to her face and laughed quietly into it.

"Your brother said you needed help urgently." she said at last. "He told me to get on this flight and the rest of it would be explained to me."  
"And you just believed him?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.  
"Mycroft saves England on a daily basis. He's saved me," she said, reminiscing, "And most of all, he's always saved _you_. I will always believe him."  
"You flatter him." Sherlock remarked stiffly.  
"I don't," she said firmly, "And you know it."

Sherlock sat back in his seat and sighed. He shut his eyes and silently contemplated his situation.

"Do you not want me here?"

Her voice was sudden, but gentle, for she had whispered it. It startled him, and his eyes popped open.

"I can always get off the plane, there's still time." she said quietly, "There's no real emergency, obviously. I don't know why he sent me here in the first—"

She was interrupted when Sherlock placed a hand over hers, silencing her as she stared at him in surprise.

"You're right." he said quietly.  
"What about?"  
"My brother."  
"O-kay."  
"He always saves me."  
"I'm glad you can say that." she remarked with a gentle smile.

The detective turned to properly look at Molly. Her smile was lovely and he could not help but reciprocate it.

"So, what's he saving you from this time?" she asked, suddenly conscious of the fact that their hands were touching.  
"Me, and my stupidity." he answered. His honesty surprised Molly.  
"You're not st—"  
"Trust me, Molly," he said with a laugh, "I am."  
"You'll have to explain that one to me."  
"I will," he said.

Sherlock looked down at his hand that touched hers. Slowly, he manoeuvred their fingers such that he was now holding her hand properly. There was a surge in Molly's pulse but he never felt it, not when he was surprised by the rush of his own.

"I hope you're a fan of warm weather," he said, settling into his seat but not once letting go of her hand.  
"I'm certainly prepared for it. Your brother had a bag packed for me."  
"Hmm, he's good, isn't he?"  
"He is."

When Molly looked at her hand held firmly by the detective who sat beside her, there was a wave of warmth in her chest. He looked lovely, a little tired, but lovely.

"I suppose I should send him a card. Remind me, won't you? When we touch down."  
"Of course. But…a card? Whatever for?" Molly asked, puzzled.

Sherlock laughed softly to himself before bringing Molly's hand up to his lips and giving it a kiss. She let out a little gasp, which made amused the detective.

"It's only right to thank him, I suppose." Sherlock said.  
"For?"

He turned to look at her, running his thumb over her delicate wrists and took in the comforting sight of her soft, brown eyes.

"For a most marvellous Christmas present." he murmured, "And what looks to be a very happy new year."

**END**


End file.
